


Tumblr fics

by actualkoschei



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: AUs, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Imported from Tumblr, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 15:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 11,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13504893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualkoschei/pseuds/actualkoschei
Summary: Reposting my bits and pieces from Tumblr.





	1. Chapter 1

Garviel Loken had loved Hastur Sejanus. It is not something he would admit, years later. When asked about it, directly asked, he would shrug it off, looking uncomfortable and mutter something about the infatuation of the young. But that was not what it had been, and he knew it.

It seemed a shameful thing, now, though he was never sure why. Sejanus had been well-loved by all. Beautiful, and kind, and favoured by the commander, the not-yet-Warmaster. It was no wonder that Garviel, young as he had been, impressionable and easily impressed, had fallen into feeling more intensely than he might otherwise have for the older Astartes.

Perhaps it was the grief that love had brought him that made him want to forget it, he eventually decided. When Hastur had died, struck down so brutally by the false Emperor on that planet of horrors that became Sixty-Three Nineteen, Garviel’s world turned red. Anger had peaked in him, his vision seemed filled with blood, and his body sung with fury, hearts pounding and adrenaline rushing. That had been tolerable. It had carried him through the battle, to safety, and glory, and a place in the Mournival.

What came after the red faded, after the fury was gone, that was unbearable. The red receded, and Garviel felt as though his mind and body and his very soul were filled with a suffocating grey fog. Something toxic, something caustic, that burnt at his throat and made his eyes water and his chest ache. Grief. That is what it was, what the Apothecaries named his affliction when he went to them to beg for some measure of relief.  _“Time only can heal these wounds,”_  his brother had told him, smiling kindly, and he offered Garviel an embrace when he started to cry hot stinging tears, and some medication to help him sleep, to drive away the haunting night terrors that left him to woke up with tasting ash and smelling blood and seeing the death grimaces of his closest brothers.

It was not just Sejanus he dreamt of. At first, it had been, a fabricated vision of what had happened that day in the false-Emperor’s throne room, the horror that had stolen Garviel’s beloved without giving him a chance to fight. But soon, there were others in his dreams. First Captain Abaddon, Nero Vipus, Saul Tarvitz of the Emperor’s Children, they were the first to creep in, followed closely by Moy and Marr, the Warmaster himself, the Great Angel, and and unfamiliar man in the grey plate of the Death Guard. And ever increasingly, Tarik Torgaddon.

  
  


“Garvi?” A voice cut through his reverie, along with a hand, slender for an Astartes, though calloused from training, and bronzed to a rich copper colour by the hot sun of the tropical world on which they found themselves then, creeping along his chest. “Garvi…” The same voice, rich and sweet and tantalising as burnt sugar.

“Yes, Tarik?” He sighed heavily in feigned irritation, the corners of his mouth twitching in a smile.

“You are thinking again. You do that to much.” Tarik lifted himself from the pillow where he had been sleeping to gently kiss Garviel’s lips, as though hoping he could brush away his lover’s thoughts with his mouth. “I know that you are troubled, though I do not know by what. Whatever burden you carry, leave it now.” Tarik instructed. “These moments are for us. The Warmaster says there is to be no more military engagements on this planet. Only some peace talks, and we will have full compliance in days. Enjoy it, precious Garvi.”

Garviel looks down at the man beside him, staring as though drinking him in like fine wine, like a piece of art he had never seen before and might never again have a chance to. “I love you, Tarik.” He breathed, like the confession of a man before the time of spirits came to an end, on his knees before an arcane priest. “Only you. So much.”

“I know.” Tarik kisses him again. “As I love you. Always.”

“Always is a long time.” Garviel looks worried once more, the creases reappearing on his forehead.

“Not too long for us. Not long enough for how I will love you. From the moment I first saw you, until the time the stars burn out, and there is no war, no Imperium, no spirits, no men, no xenos, nothing but the dust of you and the dust of me, floating in infinity together.”


	2. Chapter 2

_The heart wants what the heart wants._  So Melchior muses, looking across the bed at the sleeping face of his beloved apprentice. The younger man looks peaceful, a faint smile on his lips. Blond curls frame his face like a halo on a chapel’s painting of a saint. Melchior presses his lips to the other’s soft cheek, earning himself a sleep moan.

“No, Sibrand.” He murmurs softly. “Don’t wake. We have hours yet until they call us to duty.” He takes Sibrand against his chest, stroking his back gently. The young Astartes’s sleep robes are becoming too small as he grows into his augmentations, thin fabric tight against his muscular torso, hitched up around his hips to leave his thighs and legs bare against Melchior’s.

The position is a familiar one to them. When Sibrand was a child, he would lie like this, curled up against his mentor, searching for comfort from the brutality of his training. Melchior should not have allowed him to, he knew that. It was a lesson that had to be learnt, how to cope with discomfort, but his heart was too soft towards the boy right from the start.

The first time Melchior saw Sibrand, the younger man was a child, perhaps ten standard years, a slip of a Hiver, with his hair shaven and dirty sunken cheeks. An average urchin, he seemed, but there must have been something special to him, the Black Templar recruiters would not have picked him otherwise. And then he looked up, fixed Melchior in the eyes with a firm black-eyed gaze, and Melchior saw it, the spark of courage, the iron strength.

He pulls himself back from memories as Sibrand stirs against him, stretching muscles that ache from too-intense training that day. He had melted under Melchior’s hands the evening before, aggression worn away from his long sparring session, wanting to be tender and close and beloved. As though he could ever be anything else, Melchior thinks.

Something in his motions must have been too sudden, too rough, because Sibrand wakes, his black eyes opening, bleary with sleep. “Melchior?” He murmurs, reaching out to touch his mentor’s chest.

“Yes, precious?” Melchior offers him a tender smile.

“Is it time to be awake yet?” There is a note of complaint in the question, a child’s whine.

“No.” Melchior tries to refrain from laughing at the tone, an indulgent laugh, but it would sting Sibrand’s pride nonetheless. “We have hours yet.”

“Hold me, then.” Sibrand demands. “I want to be close to you.”

Melchior complies eagerly, pulling Sibrand in so the younger man can listen to his heartbeats. “They will send you to war soon.” He says softly, not allowing himself to show any fear. “Promise me you will be careful. Promise me you will come home.”

“I promise.” Sibrand whispers, burying his face against Melchior’s neck. “And you will still want me when I come home?” He sounds terrified.

“Of course!” Melchior stares at him in shock, eyes wide, arms tightening. “What have you been thinking? Is something wrong?”

Sibrand turns his gaze away momentarily. “The others mock us. Call us weak for this. Say that you will just leave me when I get too old for you.”

“That’s nonsense.” Melchior assures him. “Absolutely. Just because they are lonely, and they are trying to drag you down with him.” He closes his eyes, inhaling Sibrand’s scent for a moment. “It was not always like this for us, you know. A long time ago, back before the Imperium broke in two, this would not have been frowned upon. It was considered natural then. It  _is_ natural. We were not built to be lonely.”

“Is that what you read?” Sibrand smiles again, tangling his fingers in Melchior’s tunic. “I guess it is true, perhaps. Our hearts want what our hearts want, and there is nothing we can do about it.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Tea?” Corvus offers, holding out the pot, along with a blue-glazed clay mug. Konrad grunts something in the affirmative, not looking up, sitting slumped and awkward in his chair. Corvus smiles as he pours and sugars the tea. He reaches out, taking Konrad’s hand, and feels Konrad’s long, pale fingers tense desperately around his.

“It’s alright.” He soothes, sliding the cup across the table. “It’s fine, you don’t have to talk.” He smiles wider, wide teeth flashing behind his lips.

Before he knows it, his chair is being slammed back from the table, skidding across the floor with him still seated in it. Konrad is in his lap, clinging with his arms around him, strength evident more than anyone would have thought could hide within his skinny frame. He buries his face against Corvus’s chest, sharp fangs worrying the skin over his collarbone.

Corvus murmurs soothing sounds, lifting a hand to stroke the greasy tangle of Konrad’s black hair. “Bad night, my love?” He does not expect any answer, not verbally, at least. The way Konrad pushes his head closer against, the frantic tensing of his hands, that is answer enough. It will be hours before Konrad recovers enough to speak, Corvus knows this from experience. Hours of holding him, making him drink tea, rubbing his tense muscles. But it will be worth it.


	4. Chapter 4

She picks up a handful of the red dirt clay in the palms of her calloused hands, and smooths it through her long red braids, soothingly cool against her over-heated scalp. The heat on this planet is dry and heavy, working its way into every line and pore and crack of her skin, sweat running down her face to mingle with russet dust. Fighting weather, her father would say. He would say more to her, too. He had, the night before, kneeling beside her on the floor of their accommodations to eat dinner, rough stew with spices and flatbreads. That a fight fought and won under the midday sun would see her given luck, luck in battle and in life, until she faced her next opponent. She stretches her shoulder, muscles tight and aching. She had won her fight, not half an hour ago. The taste of her own blood lingers in her mouth, and the bright light leaves a halo of black spots dancing across her vision.

She spits bloody saliva onto the ground, getting to her feet. Her father would be well pleased with her tonight, for following his beliefs, relying on them. Ari has her own beliefs. That pain brings clarity, a sharpness usually denied to her muddled mind. After battle, she can, for once, think. Of her fathers, her future, and, as right now, of the witch-girl she left on Fenris, braiding raven feathers into the fall of her hair. Ari sighs, sliding back down on the dusty ground, her back against a rock. She will be home soon, on her father’s flagship, and she will pick up a vox unit, and hear the girl’s voice again. Signy, who would hold Ari’s head in her lap, and tell her stories, folktales, of wolves and ice and wicked magic. The old gods of Fenris, and their legends, Signy says, her voice soft, mind filled with half-belief.

“There are no gods.” Ari told her, kissing her palm. “No gods but our fathers, and the Emperor. You know that.”  _And my father is no god_ , Ari thinks, but she does not say.


	5. Chapter 5

The Dark Angels prize their traditions. Ritual hangs in the background of every aspect of life on Caliban.

Evelyne held a sword for the first time when she was five years old. Her father’s sword, too big and heavy in her soft child’s hands. Those hands are soft no longer. She was born into the knights’ tradition, she has been raised with it, and she will carry it herself, now.

Far away from Caliban, there is another kind of fight, another kind of tradition, steeped in its own rituals. Diplomacy. Politics. The pretty game of half-lies and courteous nothings that Evelyne would like to consider herself above.   
Across the table, she watches Felicia. Felicia, lady, princess, born to play this subtle game. Her eyes shaded by embroidered Colchisian cloth, a headscarf made for modesty, but perverted from its original purpose, now used to show coquettish glimpses of red lips and laughing golden eyes.   
Evelyne smiles despite herself. She may not know the ways of high society, but she knows Felicia, better than anyone else alive. As long as they are together, Evelyne thinks, they will be safe. Although, if she had her way, she would spirit herself and Felicia away from here, to the gardens of the Imperial Palace, where the air is wet and clean and fresh, and they can be themselves, open and unguarded, away from the clinging rituals that bind them.


	6. Chapter 6

Konrad’s hands fill with blood and broken glass. The ruined remains of a mirror, smashed through in a fit of rage and delirium. Guilt swells in Konrad’s chest. Corvus had prized that mirror, a delicate thing in a filigree silver frame, that he had been gifted from one of his first diplomatically successful compliances. Konrad lays his head down on the glass-covered floor, holding a piece of the silver against his cheek. A sob catches, acid and burning, in the back of his throat.

In an instant, cool gloved hands are on him, lifting him up and laying him safely onto a couch. He can hear Corvus’s breath, moth-fragile and faster than usual. He could extinguish that breath if he wanted, with the briefest slash of his claw-like nails, a hand around that slim white throat… No. Not his Raven. Corvus is…  _precious_. Delicate, pale, ready to shatter sharp like the slick mirror-glass had moments before. Konrad curls in on himself, fitful, peace and rest a long way from his grasp. Corvus runs a hand down the long column of his spine, murmuring something, words honey-sweet, in a language that Konrad does not speak. And then in standard High Gothic, the words Konrad will understand, “calm. Rest. It’s only glass.”

Konrad whimpers, his throat feeling parched. “I broke your mirror.” His voice rasps, hoarser than he had imagined.   
Corvus smiles at him, gentleness softened his knife-sharp features. “I know. As I said, it’s only glass. It can be mended. I shall have it sent back to the craftsmen that made it, and they will have it good as new. He wraps his fingers around Konrad’s bleeding hands, uncoiling the tense fists they have locked into, and starting to pick the glass from the wounds. “You are more important than any mirror.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I was afraid.” Garviel’s voice is soft, no more than a whisper, but enough for Tarik to hear even through the fog of his half-wakefulness, eyes still tight shut.  “I was afraid, when you were dead, that I couldn’t fight any longer, without you.” He trails a hand up over Tarik’s ribs, his muscular torso bared by the blankets that have fallen to pool around his waist. The words are spoken as a hidden confession, hushed with shame. Tarik knows he was never meant to hear them, that Garviel was never speaking to him, not really. It was a confession made to the ether, shame taking form in the blue-silver light of the beginnings of dawn. Tarik wants to give comfort, to reach out and take Garvi in his arms and tell him that  _it’s alright, you have been so brave_ , but to do that would be to admit to wakefulness, to let his overhearing of the confession be known. He cannot stop himself shifting closer, though, letting out a soft sigh and resting his face against Garvi’s shoulder.

Garvi runs his fingers through Tarik’s hair, and he lets out a broken sound, almost a sob. “Are you awake, love?” He asks, breath catching.

Tarik gives no response, not knowing what to say, to admit or stay silent.

“You are, aren’t you?” His voice takes on a desperate edge.

Tarik opens his eyes, looking up into Garvi’s face, and nods.

“Did you hear that?”

“I did.” Tarik cups Garvi’s cheek in a hand. “Don’t be afraid anymore.”


	8. Chapter 8

The compliance is at an end. The heavy air of intense martial concentration that has lain over the Emperor’s Children for the past months is slowly dissipating, washed away by the dzzy, drunken cheer of soldiers in peacetime. Fulgrim himself lays resting, a goblet of wine in his hand, draped across a sofa and clad in a robe of thin blue-violet silk. His long silver hair is brushed loose, draped with a net of jet beads, and golden bangles sparkles at his wrists and ankles, matched by the thin collar of gold fastened around his neck.

 

He makes the picture of languid, elegant beauty, and Ferrus smiles to see him. The primarch of the Iron Hands is freshly arrived aboard the  _Pride of the Emperor_ , clad in a clean tunic, and newly shaven. He crosses the room in long strides, leaning over Fulgrim and cupping his head, lifting his chin to pull him into a deep kiss.

  
Fulgrim reaches up one slender hand to cup the back of Ferrus’s head. “Dearest brother.” He purrs. “How I have missed you.”

 

Ferrus groans, pressing his forehead to Fulgrim’s. “You certainly lingered on this compliance. You were far behind schedule, told me you would have done with it four months ago.”

 

“I am sorry.” Fulgrim clasps his arms around Ferrus tugging him to sit by him on the low couch. “You know I did not make you wait purposefully, my love. I would never. No matter that I  _do_  like how hot you get when you have missed me.”

 

Ferrus chuckles, deep and throaty. “Hush, you. I will show you later tonight you hot I get, you much I have missed you.”

 

Soft laughter comes from outside the door, Saul Tarvitz and Lucius standing together with their ears pressed to the wood. “Looks as though someone will be having some fun soon.” Lucius quips, his expression a wicked smirk.

 

Saul shakes his head. “You could be having some of your own. Go to bed, Lucius. I’m sure Solomon is waiting for you.” A flutter of pain lances through his hearts, thinking of his own cold and lonely bed awaiting him. “Attend to your lover, my friend. This last fight was hard on him. That shoulder wound looks nasty.”

 

Lucius reaches out, laying his hands on Saul’s shoulders. “And what of you, brother? What awaits you this lovely evening?”  
  
Saul sighs heavily, leaning into the warmth of Lucius’s touch. “A hot bath, one hopes, and perhaps some wine and a good book, or a few hours in the training cages.”

 

Lucius shakes his head. “You poor lonely thing. Don’t you miss him?”

 

“Every minute, what do you think?” Saul shudders. “I haven’t even heard his voice in almost a year. No time for messages, not with both our Legion and the Death Guard on compliance. All I can do is just hope that he is alive and unharmed.” His voice catches, trembling and weak.

 

“Oh, Saul.” Lucius embraces him firmly, holding his brother to his chest. “All will be well. You will be together again before you know it.”

 

Saul relaxes, tension leaving his body. “Thank you, Lucius. Now go. Go to Solomon, and let us leave our primarch in peace.”


	9. Chapter 9

There are legends that surround the village, cloaked in whispers and spoken of in dark tones. Legends of a dark creature, a blood-drinker, a vampiric shade stealing livestock from their paddocks and babies from their cradles. Some claim to have even seen the thing; scrawny and moon-pale, with sharp claws and long black hair. In the old lord of the manor’s time, the attacks reached a peak. The townspeople, good, gods-fearing folk, were afraid to walk at night, or to leave their windows unlatched even, and they draped their doorframes in holy symbols, gathering their children close. A shadow of fear lay over the county. Visitors no longer came. But the old lord is five years dead, and since his son, young Corvus, took his position, the fear is gone. No more attacks, no more threat, the creature lingers only in stories. Even if the baker’s daughter says she had seen him last Sunday on her way to church, hiding in the shadows of the forest trees. The townspeople laugh it off, disbelieving her. She always was prone to flights of fancy, ever since she was young.

 

The windows of Lord Corvus’s bedchamber hang open, flapping slightly in the chill night breeze. A sharp-toothed shadow thickens on the sill, cloaked in tattered raven feathers, dark blood smeared around a fierce black mouth. Corvus sighs, turning away from his writing desk, and laying down his inky quill. “Come in, Konrad. Warm yourself by the fire. I’ve a meal waiting for you.” He gestures to a plate resting by the bed, raw bleeding meat and sweet cakes dripping with honey.

  
The creature swings himself lightly through the window, hunching over on the carpet and snatching the plate, tearing into the food. It all vanishes in minutes. Being finished, he comes to Corvus, laying his head in the lordling’s satin-covered lap. Corvus lowers a hand, winding his fingers through the long, tangled strands of Konrad’s night-black hair. “You were hungry, weren’t you, love?”

 

Konrad purrs, voice rolling over his tongue, raw with disuse. “Hungry. Yes. Lonely. Wanted you.”  
  
“I’m sorry, precious.” Corvus soothes. “We had a royal delegation visiting. Dreadful bores, but it was far too dangerous for you to be about the manor while they were here, you could have been seen, and who knows what would have happened to you then?”

 

“Could have fought.” Konrad mutters. “Teeth, claws. Better than weapons.”  
  
“I don’t want you to fight them!” Corvus sighs heavily. “Konrad, I love you. I hate the thought of you being hurt.” He smiles, lifting Konrad’s head to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Were you still human, we’d be married by now. You’d be a lord yourself, can you imagine that?”  
  


Konrad chuckles in pleasure. “I’d have pretty things like yours?”  
  
“You can have as many pretty things as you want, you know that. Don’t even need to marry me. Just have to ask, and I’ll get you something. I’m having a coat made up for you right now, a good wool coat. It will be winter soon, you’ll feel the chill out there in the woods.”

 

Konrad shudders at the thought. “Don’t like winter. Want to…” He stops, biting his tongue, sharp fangs drawing blood.

 

Corvus brushes a finger over his lip. “What, my dearest? What do you wish?”

 

“Want to stay here. With you. Warm.  _Safe_.”

 

“Oh. Oh, Konrad.” Corvus gets up from his chair, lifting the shade into his arms to carry him to his bed. Konrad feels light as smoke in his arms, all fragile bones and whispy feathers. “I would that that could be. Nothing would please me more than to have you by my side. But the people, they would hate you. I know they frighten you already, how much worse would it get if you were to be their lord?”

 

Konrad buries his face against Corvus’s chest with a faint whine. “Don’t care. Want you. Let me stay.”

 

“Stay tonight.” Corvus pulls him up into a heated kiss. “Just for tonight, and then we will see. We will see how I can arrange for you to never have to leave.”


	10. Chapter 10

The ash of the battle is still falling over the baked-grey ground when Sigismund leaves his Legion. His hearts feel heavy in his chest, aching and raw. Dorn’s handprint, the raw mark of hard slap, stings still on his cheek, but it’s nothing to the pain in his chest.  _Failure!_  His mind screams.  _You failed him, he doesn’t want you!_  
He  wanders to his ship like a shade, failed in his duty, spurned by his lord, his Primarch, his lover at that. And he does love, he’ll always love, even with Dorn’s words still ringing in his head.  _“You’re no son of mine. Get out of my sight.”_  
He makes it to the ship before his tears start to fall. And when they do, there’s no stopping them. Sigismund curls in on himself, falling against the small, bare bunk and wailing against his hands. The cuffs of his tunic soak through with salt tears, and he tastes them on his tongue. “I love you.” He sobs aloud. “Father, I love you, I’m sorry!” There’s no answer. Nothing but the hum of the ship’s engines, quiet and steady, a sharp contrast to the storm of him, the pounding of his hearts and his hoarse sobs.  
He lies awake, his hands trembling and Catalapsean Node sending pangs through his head, but no sleep comes. It won’t, he is sure, until he can lie in his beloved’s arms, and feel safe and loved and worthy once more.  
—  
He drifts in a miasma of heavy blue-black sadness, the echoes of Dorn’s words blisteringly loud in his mind. “ _If you think you can still be mine, then prove it.”  
Prove it. _The words echo louder, orphaned from anything else, banging against his skull. Sigismund sits bolt upright. “I will!” He shouts aloud to the empty air. “I’ll prove it!”  
That night finds him shaking off his blankets, the small warmth and comfort of his bed, to trade it for the empty cold of the armour, and the sharp sting of steel. Most of the training facilities are half-demolished within hours, but he isn’t finished. Isn’t yet perfect, and that won’t do. He has to win, he has to, to be the best of the Legions, and only then maybe he will be good enough, maybe he can go back to Dorn and tell him look, Father. Look what I did for you. Now you can be proud of me. Now I can stand at your side again.  
—  
A hundred enemies. The best of all the Legions. A hundred duels, a hundred wins, a hundred trophies. Surely, that will be enough. Surely, that will show even Rogal Dorn, in all his stubborn pride, that Sigismund is worthy to be his captain, his son, to stand and fight for him. Sigismund’s muscles burn alright, tight and aching from days of training, his form almost good enough now. Almost, but not yet. His opponents are lined up in his mind, a gaunlet for him to run. Amit, first. A good friend, and a good fight. Sure to put up a challenge. And then Kharn, Abaddon, Sevatar, and beyond that he doesn’t know. Anyone who wants to try. There’s got to be plenty, he thinks, that wouldn’t mind having a go at him. Trying to win. They won’t, though. He can’t allow that. He can’t lose now, not this. Not this fight for his love.  
At night he still dreams of Dorn. Of his touch, the few lucky nights when he was allowed to lay beside his lord, in his arms, and trace the shapes of his face, and the contours of his musclar arms and chest, kiss his mouth and his stubble and tangle his fingers in silken bone-white hair. A privilege, one he was proud to say he had never taken for granted, always fearing he would lose it. And now he has. As he had always feared. But it’s not forever, he soothes himself. He will be back in his lord’s favour once he has done this, he has to be. Dorn must see the love and faith Sigismund bears for him. Because it’s too much for him to handle on his own, he cannot stand to think that it is not proper, what he feels, that he has been rejected. He is burning, his hearts like fire in his chest, and it is agony. And it has been agony for years, decades, the most painful agony and then bliss when he was accepted, only to be cast out into loneliness and pain once more, at the slightest failing. No, not the slightest. There was nothing slight about what he did, and he deserves his punishment and more. A whole system, lost to the Imperium through his own carelessness, his arrogance to think he knew better than the orders he had been given, to think his hasty observations of the situation would serve his Legion better than Dorn’s careful planning. And he had been wrong, so wrong, and they had suffered for it. Hundreds of his brothers dead, the battle lost, and even Camba-Diaz, his closest fellow captain, his second in the Legion, lying still as death in the Apothecary, ashen-skinned and broken. Sigismund hadn’t been allowed to stay with his brother, to watch over him and hopefully to see him wake. He hadn’t been allowed to go the Apothecaries himself, and let them tend to his wounds, only given enough time to take what he needed and go. And he wants to go home, more than anything.  
—  
Sigismund’s duel with Amit is on a crisp, clear-golden Baalite morning, just as the sun begins to rise. They wear no armour, only loincloths and sandals to protect their feet from the heat of the sand onces the suns of Baal Secundus are further risen in the sky. Sigismund carries only his sword, and only that. Amit is also armed with a sword, but he has a knife strapped to his hip for backup. Sigismund looks him over, once, twice, taking stock of it. His old friend looks tired, but well and happy. He must have just come home, Sigismund thinks, from a visit to one of his husbands, or both. Maybe he will still be distracted, his edge lost. That could make things easier. Sigismund doesn’t want to hurt Amit, that was never his aim. Only to beat him.   
Their swords clash for the first time with a sharp clang, splitting the serenity of the morning air. The sand feels loose under Sigismund’s feet, but he knows his enhanced balance means that he won’t fall. He presses forward, driving Amit back, feinting to the side to get around his guard. It doesn’t work, and he finds himself thrown flat on his back on the sand. For  a moment, staring up at the purple and gold Baalite sky, he truly considers that he might lose. But then he is on his feet again, bearing down on Amit, determination and the fire of love too strong to let him stop, to let him give up. He throws Amit down, pinning his arms, and slashes his sword across the other’s chest. Blood wells up, thick and red. First blood, the agreed end of the duel.  
Sigismund lays down his sword, reaching out to help Amit to his feet, and is clapped on the shoulder in return.  
“Good fight, brother!” Amit’s voice is strong and hearty, no sign of bitterness or anger at losing. Sigismund is shaking, the aftershocks of adrenaline running through him, along with a bitter streak of sadness and jealousy. He nods, though, forcing a smile.   
Amit picks up on the aura of dark grief hanging over his brother. “Are you alright? This isn’t like you, to not be gloating after a fight.” He lays a hand on Sigismund’s shoulder.  
Sigismund tenses, takes a deep breath, before deciding to tell the truth. “Dorn threw me out.”  
Amit takes a deep breath. “Out of his bed? Or…?”  
“Both. Out of his bed, and the Legion.” Sigismund shudders again, letting out a sob. And after that, there’s no holding back his tears, the rising swell of pain and tension in his chest unable to be forced down any longer.   
Amit embraces him, holding him tight and letting him cry. “And that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I’ll call Jago, get him to volunteer for her duels. I won’t tell him why, if you don’t want.”  
“Don’t. D-don’t, please.” He buries his face in Amit’s shoulder, the warm presence making him feel less alone than he had since the battle.   
“Don’t fear, Sigismund. Dorn loves you, I know that. We all know that, we can all see that. He’ll take you back, once you’ve shown him your devotion.”  
“Thank you.” Sigismund’s voice is smaller than he had meant.   
He stays only long enough to take breakfast with Amit. He wants to linger in his friend’s company, eating grains and milk and chopped fruit, but something inside him itches and aches still, driving him to move on to the next fight.   
—   
The next fight happens to be Kharn. He meets Sigismund in the sparring cages, already glistening with sweat from a practice fight. He makes quite a sight, with his bare muscled chest shining under the lights, and his sharp features framed by blood-coloured battlepaint. Sigismund smiles faintly at the sight, even in his misery able to appreciate an attractive cousin.   
Kharn throws his head back, posturing. “Come on, Sigismund! What are we standing about for?”  
Sigismund forces a smile back. “Can’t imagine. Let’s fight.”  
And then they clash together, harder than with Amit. There is no grace in fight Kharn, Sigismund thinks. May as well throw himself against a brick wall, or rather, one bristling with sharp metals. There will be wounds, Sigismund will not come out of this duel unharmed. Bruises, he hopes, or sprains, strains, even bones broken. Not blood. No blood, that would ruin him. Sigismund’s muscles are burning in minutes, his legs from trying to move fast enough to avoid Kharn’s strikes, his arms from the quick swings and parries of his sword, faster even than he was used to.   
It takes a while, his body feeling heavy and stressed before he manages to pin Kharn on the mat. He holds Kharn there, shaking his shoulders, feeling fury and tension course through his body as he slams his brother into the mats.   
Kharn put a hand up against Sigismund’s shoulder. “Brother! Stop!”  
Sigismund recoils, tears springing to his eyes. “Kharn…”   
“Sigismund.” Kharn wraps his arms around him, holding him close. “Shh. I heard. Amit told me.”  
Sigismund sobs then, breaking down and letting himself cry. “Hurts…”  
Kharn shudders, rubbing his friend’s back gently. “I know. I can’t… I can’t imagine.” There is a sharp pain in his chest at the mere thought. The words repeated to him from Amit ring in his head, but instead of Dorn’s voice, he hears Angron’s. Calling him a failure, reminding him what he did wrong, all of it. Disowning him.  _How could I live throught that?_  He wonders. He couldn’t, he knows it. And yet Sigismund, his poor oath-brother, was going through all that right now.   
Kharn sits up, guiding Sigismund with him, shifiting their bodies to hold Sigismund on his lap. Sigismund’s tears soak Kharn’s bare shoulder, and he shakes pathetically with his pain and grief. “I know.” Kharn soothes. “I know, dear brother, I know.”  
—  
Later that night, Sigismund lays curled against Kharn’s back, cuddled together in his bed. Sigismund had been lent the bed for the night, and Kharn had crawled back to join him when he was half-asleep. Kharn smelt of sweat and sex, not all of it is his. He must have been with Angron that evening, but he came back to comfort Sigismund.   
Now, they are curled together, comfortingly close. Sigismund’s nose is filled with the smell of Kharn’s earthy smell, all sweat and massage oils and something like silver. Kharn is sound asleep now, but Sigismund can’t find any rest of his own.  He watches his brother’s sleeping face instead, seeing the expressions flit across it, gentle smiles and small twitches. Even in sleep, the Butcher’s Nails still bite at him. Sigismund reaches out a hand, gently smoothing back his hair. Kharn settles at the touch, sighing softly. His arm slides across Sigismund’s waist, hand smoothing gently. Sigismund twitches, the touch achingly, painfully, familiar. Dorn rests the same way, twitchy and restless in his sleep. Fresh tears spring to Sigismund’s eyes at the thought. It aches, it hurts, and he lets out a whimper, enough to wake Kharn partway.   
“’S matter?” He whispers, voice slurred with sleep. He pats Sigismund’s side affectionately.   
“Sorry. Can’t sleep. Keep thinking about him.” He’s choked up with tears, and it’s not hard to figure out who he means.   
Kharn looks sympathetic, even through the darkness. “Tell me about it?”  
Sigismund takes a deep breath, hesitating. “Thinking about sleeping with him. Not sex, you understand? Sharing a bed with him, snuggling, the way he holds me. Actually, he prefers for me to hold him. Says he feels safe in my arms. He gets… vulnerable, I think that’s the best way to say it?… when he’s tired. Wants to be held, and for me to tell him how I love him, and sometimes he cries.”  
Kharn’s voice sounds shocked. “Dorn cries?”   
Sigismund nods, and then decides to speak, realising Kharn’s eyes are closed again. “Yes. He’s not made of stone or ice, not like people think!” There’s a note of anger in his voice.  
Kharn pats his arm again. “I know. It is the same with Angron, people think he is only rage and fury, like an animal, but he is not! He’s soft, and gentle, and he gets in horrible pain sometimes, but other times he takes such good care of me. He likes baths, and massages. What makes Dorn feel better?”  
Sigismund thinks for a long moment. “When I rub his shoulders, get the knots out of his muscles. And he likes to tell me stories, too. Folk-tales from Inwit, and old pieces of Imperial history.”  
“That’s sweet.” Kharn sounds more awake now. “Think about his stories, yeah? Imagine yourself in his arms.” He kisses Sigismund’s shoulder. “Try to sleep, you must be exhausted. I’ll hold you.”  
—  
Days later, Sigismund is getting ready to face the last of his duels. His hundredth enemy. The warrior enters in full armour, as promised, his face hidden by his helm. He’s tall, taller than Sigismund, and big and solid besides. Must be a Terminator, with something to prove. He puts up a hard fight, quick with his sword, but Sigismund refuses to lose to him. He hasn’t lost once yet, he’s won ninety-nine fights, and word of his mission is spreading through the Legions. It has to be enough for Dorn, Sigismund has to be allowed to come back. He’s sweating now, salt of his sweat and tears burning in his eyes. His armour is heavy, restrictive, but he has to be wearing it, to put himself equal with his enemy. His hearts are pounding, thudding in his chest. This fight is harder than any so far. He feels he might be losing. A scream tears itself from his chest, and he throws himself at his enemy, his weight tossing them both to the ground. Sigismund straddles the other man’s chest, reaching to tear off his helmet, in order to draw blood. What he sees steals the breath right from his lungs.   
White hair, the colour of bone, sticking up in a mess of sweat. Dark skin, deep tanned from polar sun on top of its natural brown tint. Sharp cheekbones, strong features, deep grey eyes. Dorn. His precious, beloved Rogal Dorn.  
Sigismund lets out a sound halfway between a scream and a sob, burying his face against Dorn’s neck. “Father… my lord… please forgive me!”  
Dorn brings a gauntleted hand to stroke Sigismund’s hair, his cheek, brushing a tear away from under his eye. “Sigismund. My sweet boy. Oh, my beloved boy. There’s nothing to forgive you for, you fight so hard.” He pulls Sigismund tight against his chest, stroking his hair with shaky tenderness. “I missed you so much.” He admits.  
Sigismund is trembling, sobbing softly. “Missed you… missed you too. Will you take me back?”  
Dorn nods carefully. “Yes. I’ll take you back, my darling. If you can win this last fight. Draw my blood. Can you do it?”  
Sigismund lifts his sword with shuddering hands, and brushes his fingers against Dorn’s cheeks. Every fibre of his body is screaming at him that he can’t do it, that it is wrong, forbidden for him to harm his father. But he manages to lift the sword, draw the edge across Dorn’s cheekbone, seeing rich red blood well up. A louder sob tears itself from his chest, and he leans down, desperately kissing the wound.   
Dorn wraps his arms around his son, rocking him, comforting him. “I’ve got you, my boy. I’m not leaving you now, we can go home. I’ll take you home.”   
He gets to his feet, and then grabs Sigismund’s hand, pulling him to his feet. “I’ve got you. Don’t you fret now.”   
Sigismund leans his head on Dorn’s shoulder. “I’m sorry…”  
“Don’t.” Dorn kisses him firmly on the top of his head. “I overreacted, I should never have sent you away. Not you, my lovely Captain. My most precious.”  
Dorn doesn’t let go of Sigismund until they’re on his ship, the one that brought him. He leads Sigismund to his bed. “Take your armour off, and lie down,” he directs, voice kind and affectionate.   
Sigismund follows directions, trembling slightly, his hearts feeling full and heavy. The bed is soft, it feels good against his achey, worn muscles, and his naked sweaty skin.   
Dorn undresses himself, and then looks at down at Sigismund with a warm, soft gaze. “You look exhausted, poor darling boy.” He sits on the edge of the bed, cupping Sigismund’s cheek with one hand. “You really won one hundred fights? In so little time? It’s only been a few Terran standard months.”  
Sigismund sighs at the touch. “I did. For you, I’d do it all over again, a hundred more times.”  
Dorn lifts Sigismund’s face, letting it rest on his hand, and kisses him tenderly. “I missed this. Missed being with you, you know.” He kisses him again, deeper, sweet and passionate. “Love you. The taste of you… it drives me mad.” He lays beside Sigismund, tugging their bodies tight together. They kiss more, hands wandering, warm tongues licking over lips.   
Dorn is gripping Sigismund’s ass, kneading at the muscle. “I want to make love to you. But you look so worn out.” He presses his lips to Sigismund’s forehead. “I’ll wait until you have recovered, alright?”  
Sigismund nods, snuggling closer into Dorn’s chest. His eyes fall closed, as hard as he fights sleep. “So tired…” He mutters. “Couldn’t sleep, kept thinking about you.”  
“It’s alright, it’s over now.” Dorn rubs his back. “You can sleep, I’ll hold you.”  
Sigismund does, falling asleep in the pleasant, long-awaited warmth of Dorn’s embrace. The arms around him are strong, muscular, and safe. Dorn smells like home, and his embrace feels like love.   
Sigismund sleeps soundly that night, in a way he hadn’t in months, since before the battle that got him branded as a failure. He doesn’t dream, sees only gentle blackness.   
—  
When he wakes, Dorn is looking down at him, face full of love. He smiles when he sees Sigismund’s eyes open. “Good morning, dear sleepy boy.” He kisses Sigismund’s cheek. “Are you feeling better?”  
Sigismund stretches, yawning widely. “Sore.” He replies honestly.   
Dorn smiles at him. “My cheek still hurts where you cut me.”  
Sigismund winces, tensing up and whining slightly at both the strike of emotion and the ache of his shoulders and back.   
Dorn puts a hand out to the shoulder. “There now. It’s alright. I’m proud of you, you know.”  
“R-really?” Sigismund’s lip trembles.   
“Of course.” Dorn embraces him close. “Come here, let me comfort you.”  
Sigismund complies, melting against Dorn’s chest. “I love you. I will always love you.”  
“And you will never be alone in that.”


	11. Chapter 11

“I love you.” Fulgrim murmurs, his voice sounding strained. “So much, always, do you know that?”

Ferrus runs a silver hand over Fulgrim’s chest, feeling his warm, soft, white skin, like silk over iron-hard muscle. He sighs, deeply. His hearts feel full, almost too full, heavy and aching. Fulgrim is so beautiful, like liquid platinum, so clever and loving, and what has he done to deserve this? What could he have ever done? He doesn’t say this. Instead, he just whispers, “I know.”

Fulgrim sits up, silver hair flowing down his back like a drowning man, lovely as an old painting, and wraps his arms around Ferrus’s neck. He rests his head against the warsmith’s shoulder, nestling against him. “Is something troubling you, love?”

Ferrus sighs again, gathering Fulgrim against him, enjoying the feel of him, soft but strong, in his arms. “Never.” He replies, almost truthfully.

Fulgrim shifts so he is straddling Ferrus’s lap, and kisses him hard. Ferrus moans against his mouth. This is everything. Everything he craves.

Fulgrim lifts Ferrus’s nightshirt out of the way, scraping his nails over the skin of his back and mouthing at his neck. “Ferrus, I…”

Ferrus strokes over Fulgrim’s waist, his hips, with absent hands. “What is it, brother?”

“I could stay like this forever.”  _This is so close to the perfection I’ve been searching for._


	12. Chapter 12

“Please, Luther, don’t leave me.” Lion sobs, shaking. The darkness presses in on him, heavy, and he can taste the sterile metal of the ship and nothing feels right.

“Never, my darling.” Except that. Luther holds Lion tightly, and reaches up to kiss his face, to taste the salt of his tears. “I could never. Did you dream it again?”

Lion shudders. “Yes. It was… awful.”

Luther shifts to rest against Lion, take one of his shuddering hands and kiss his brow. “I can only imagine. But that is all that it was. A nightmare.”

“It felt so real…”

“It was not, I promise you. What could ever drive me to leave your side?”

“I don’t… my dreams, they are not so clear. I drive you away from my side, and you betray me, but I never know why!”

Luther sighs. “My poor boy. These dreams torment you so. Know that I would never leave your side. I am right here, always.”

Lion sighs, and pulls Luther into his chest.


	13. Chapter 13

“Don’t you ever do that again!” Garro’s voice is tight, sharp. “You could have been killed!”

“I’m not dead, Nate.” Saul’s not unhurt, either, with his chest so heavily bandaged, and Nathaniel’s hearts ache at the sight of him.  I almost lost him.

“It was too close!” Nathaniel insists. Then he softens slightly. “What would I do if I’d lost you? Tell me that.”

Saul reaches out to him, gently. “You would endure.”

“I don’t know that I could.”

“Nate.” Saul strokes over his wrist. “I’m not going anywhere. Don’t you worry about me.”

“But if you did…”

“Won’t happen. I promise you. Now,” Saul’s lips quirk up in a smile. “Kiss me?”


	14. Chapter 14

Magnus is still, shockingly still. Sleeping, or so one would think. His red skin has taken on a copper-ash pallor, drained and unhealthy. His hair is wild, stuck to his face with sweat, and Russ feels a sudden, unreasonable urge to push it back.

He’d only left Magnus for a moment. They’d been fighting, as usual, but one of Skadi’s pups was crying, and that had taken his attention. He’d left Magnus angry, ranting, and came back to find him crumpled across a barely-primarch-sized chair, completely dead to the world.

“Magnus?” Russ moves around him cautiously, inhaling deeply to catch his scent. He smells no hint of deceit, only pain and exhaustion. “Brother?” He touches Magnus’s shoulder gently, shaking him slightly. There is no response, and Magnus remains deeply asleep.

Looking at his deeply sleeping brother, Russ feels something unexpected. A sudden surge of tenderness, replacing the anger and near-hatred that usually swell in him when he thinks of Magnus.

It is safe to assume, he thinks to himself, that Magnus will not wake until late that night, or in the morning. And even though he is right now basking in the warmth of a crackling fire, by then the room will be cold. Not ordinary cold, but the cold of a Fenrisian night, deadly when exposed to the elements, and when sheltered painful even to a primarch. He needs to move Magnus, get him into a bed and wrapped up in some furs.

A thought, quick, traitorous, but not without its truth, enters Leman’s head. He should take Magnus to his own bed. There, Magnus would be warm, with Russ and his wolves, safe and protected. And Leman wants, he doesn’t know why or how, but he suddenly wants to sleep in his bed beside Magnus, to hold his red-skinned brother in his arms and feel him close. To keep Magnus warm and cared for and happy. But Magnus would never agree. He’d never accept Leman’s touch, he’d be disgusted if he woke and found himself in the Wolf’s arms.

Even so. Russ leans down, scoops Magnus into his arms. He doesn’t wake, only stirs slightly in his sleep and makes a small moaning noise. Russ hums back, a soothing, vulpine sound.

Russ carries Magnus up the many narrow, steep stairs to his rooms. It’s not easy going, even for him. The jarl’s chambers sit at the top of the aetre, and the winding steps are uneven stone, too steep and worn down slippery-smooth at the edges. Besides, Magnus is heavy, bigger than Russ, taller, with broad strong shoulders, and in his sleep he is deadweight. Russ contemplates laying him down more than a few times, but then he feels the sting of the wind through the staircases, and he can’t bring himself to leave his brother on the cold stone, not even for a moment.

He sets Magnus down on his own bed, pulls a few of the many furs loose and drapes them over his brother, then climbs up to took them closer around him, cocooning Magnus in pelts. A few wolves, mostly pups, and Freki and Geri too, whine at the unfamiliar presence.

“Hush.” Leman soothes them. “He’s safe.” _I think_ , he mentally adds. “Not pack. Not an enemy, either.”  _And when did that change? I used to hate him. Now I feel… I… I don’t know what I feel for him. Russ thinks to himself, his brow creasing in puzzlement._

Thinking is for the morning, he decides. He climbs into bed beside Magnus, and tugs his own furs around him, pulling Freki close to his chest and letting sleep claim him.

And he is awoken by a desperate, shattered, scream. Leman sits bolt upright, confused, searching for the enemy. There is none. There is only Magnus, awake now, but wide-eyed and staring, shaking, sobbing.

Leman reaches out a hand to him. “Brother? What is it?”

Magnus startles at the touch, jumping away. “Leman! I…” He shakes his head, calming a little. “A dream, a vision, I… I don’t know. I need…”

With that, he pulls Russ aggressively close, and slams their lips together.

Leman is startled at first. This is strange, not behaviour he would suspect his studious, precious, brother to engage in. But Magnus’s lips are soft, and warm, and they taste good, like salt and sweat and some sort of herbal cream. Leman likes it. He likes it a lot. He could get used to this, he thinks, swiping a lick over Magnus’s lips, and pushing his tongue into Magnus’s mouth.

Then Magnus pulls away. “I am sorry, brother. That was… oh, what am I doing?”

Leman chuckles. “If you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.” His voice is a deep, warm rumble, as he pulls Magnus back in for another kiss.


	15. Chapter 15

Lorgar wakes up held in a strong, warm grip. A hand caresses his chest, and the man snuggled up behind him presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“Awake already, love?” Roboute’s voice is soft, but Lorgar can feel the deep rumble of it through his bones.

“Mmm. Why didn’t you wake me when you got home?”

“You looked so peaceful sleeping there. So pretty. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Lorgar turns slightly, squirming to be able to see Roboute’s face. “But I wanted to be disturbed. I’ve been waiting to see you.”

Roboute smiles, and kisses Lorgar’s cheekbone, the best spot he can reach from their angle. “I’m here now. How was your day?”

“Desperately dreary without you.” Lorgar’s tone is light, but only half-joking.

“Aren’t you enjoying Maccrage?” Roboute looks suddenly worried.

“No, I am, I am! It’s just not as wonderful without you around to show it to me.” Lorgar rolls over in Roboute’s arms to face him, and kisses him gently on the mouth. Roboute pulls him in, deepening the kiss, tongues and lips caressing each other’s.

“Do you want me to take you out tonight?” Roboute asks, as they break the kiss to breathe. “I can show you more of the city, and take you to dinner.”

Lorgar smiles, snuggling closer into Roboute. “That would be nice.”

“Good.” Roboute kisses his forehead. “Go get changed into something nice.”

Lorgar freezes up, his happy look changing to uncertainty. “I don’t… I don’t have anything nice. All my clothes are plain.”

“And you look lovely in them. My little sparrow.” Roboute squeezes him into his chest. “Just wear one of your formal robes.”

Lorgar goes to his guest-room. The bed is barely rumpled. He hadn’t slept there since his arrival on Maccrage, as he was with Roboute every night, but the room had been provided nonetheless.

He dresses quickly, in a white linen robe with golden patterns around the edges, and outlined his eyes with black kohl, then took a quick look in the large mirror on the wall. He looked… Kor Phaeron would have scolded him for being frivolous and seductive, had he been there to see him. But Kor Phaeron wasn’t here, and maybe Roboute would like it. He never had seemed to mind Lorgar choosing to indulge in distractions, in unnecessary luxury, in sensuality. On the contrary, he encouraged him, indulged him in his fancies. With that, Lorgar smoothed the pleats of his robe, and went to find Roboute.

And found the breath snatched from his lungs at the first sight of him. Roboute wears a military-esque uniform, long coat and sharp pants, in deep blue trimmed with gold braid. His hair is slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of his face and smooth tan skin, and his blue eyes are dark and shining. He is beautiful. Dazzling. Lorgar suddenly feels very small and plain. He could never compete, even if he tried. He won’t look right beside the King of Ultramar.

“You look beautiful.” He manages.

Roboute steps towards Lorgar. “As do you. I knew you’d be perfect, love. Are you ready to go?”

“Y-yes. I think so.” Lorgar feels overwhelmed. It’s too much, too perfect.

“Come on then.” Roboute lays an arm over Lorgar’s shoulders as they step out into the street.

People stare as they walk past, awed by the spectacle of the two primarchs. “Look at that.” Roboute whispers in Lorgar’s ear. “They’re watching us. Watching you. I bet they’re jealous of me. Jealous that I get to walk with you, touch you, have you by my side, and they don’t.”

Lorgar shudders as Roboute’s words touch something deep and electric inside of him. He can feel the eyes of the people of Macragge, heavy on his skin. The hairs on his arms rise, and he nestles closer to Roboute. Let them envy him, instead, for having such a stunning lover.

“Where are we going?” He asks instead.

“Dinner. I think you will like it. At least, I hope so.”

Lorgar does. The place Roboute has taken him is surprisingly quiet, although that might have something to do with the sudden presence of two primarchs. And pleasant, too, all dark wood and white paint and an excess of dripping taper candles in carved holders.

Roboute seems to know the owners, a lovely old lady and her husband, judging by the way he speaks to them. The woman has a baby in her arms, a grandchild or great-grandchild, and she hands her over to Roboute for kisses and blessings. She cries at being jostled, but hushes when she looks into Roboute’s face, sees his warm blue eyes and gentle smile.  _They love him_ , Lorgar thinks, in wonder.  _They are his people. He truly is their king, their Lord of Ultramar._  Something dark rises in the pit of Lorgar’s stomach, and twists at his insides. What he would give to be loved that way. To have people, someone, anyone, look at him that way, with awed faces and shining eyes. To be a symbol, a leader like Roboute was. To be valued, and important.

Then the woman turned her fierce, bright gaze on him, and clucked her tongue. “Hello, my lord. Would you like some bread? You look hungry. I’ll fetch you some.” And with that, she hurried away, leaving her husband and the baby to attend to them.

Roboute turns back to Lorgar, looking contented and indulgent. “She makes good bread. You are very lucky.”

“She didn’t do it for me.” Lorgar can’t keep a note of bitter sadness from his voice. “She did it for you. She loves you.”

Roboute’s face turns serious. “Well,” he says, careful, measured. “ _I_  love _you_. Very much, in fact. I want you to understand that. Remember it. Do you?”

Lorgar tries to smile. “I know you do. I love you too. It’s just that sometimes…”

Roboute reaches out to take Lorgar’s hand across the table. “I know, darling. I know you haven’t been treated well, and I can’t undo that, as much as I wish I could. But that’s over now, I promise. People care about you, and admire you. I can tell.” Roboute’s eyes shine softly as he looks at Lorgar, and his expression is filled with love and tenderness. “I am so sorry, love, for my part in hurting you. I used to be so harsh to you, I thought I hated you and I acted that too. It was wrong, I was wrong, and I went against my own heart by doing it. Can you forgive me?”

Lorgar looks into Roboute’s face, and he sees what he’s been missing. Love, and awe, and humility. He wants to cry, with happiness and regret and just pure emotion. “Of course, of course, I forgave you a long time ago. I… I hated you too, or thought I did. I was…” His voice breaks off, choked with tears, before he can finish.  _Weak_ , he meant to say. _Stubborn and wrong_.

“Shh, love, don’t cry. It’s alright now.” Roboute rub little circles into Lorgar’s hands, clutching them tight. “Food will be here soon. You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten.”

He reached out to fill Lorgar’s cup with heady, sweet wine. A few gulps of it did calm his nerves, and his heart. And, as Roboute had promised, the food did make him feel better. It was good food, richer than what he was used to, albeit simple. Bread wih cheese and vegetables, thick rich stew with warm spices, all sorts of sauces and toppings. Lorgar finds himself eating fast, trying to enjoy the delicious flavours before they can be taken away.

Roboute smiles at him. “Slow down, love. You’ll choke if you eat that fast.”

“But it’s so good!”

“I know. That’s why I brought you here. But you’re not going to run out of food anytime soon, not when you’re with me, okay?”

Lorgar nods, looking contrite.

“Don’t you ever worry. I’ll always look after you.”


	16. Chapter 16

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Curze pulls sharply away from Mortarion’s quiet, cautious touch.

Mortarion exhales hard. Curze is in obvious pain, and he knows exactly the compound to ease his tense muscles, and the last of his convulsions from the seizure he had just witnessed, but his brother seems uninclined to let Mortarion close.

Instead, Mortarion puts away his syringe and kneels by Konrad’s head. “You don’t like being touched?” He asks in a soft, hoarse voice.

Konrad shakes his head violently, gnawing on his own wrist.

Mortarion is about to ask why, and then it dawns on him. He should have seen the signs, as present in him as in his brother. Once someone has forced their touch upon another, the victim will always be jumpy, especially when so weak as Konrad is now. “I know how it feels.” He confides, voice soft.

“How?” Konrad’s voice is acid.

“You were not the only one who’s childhood was cruel to them, brother.” Mortarion’s voice carries a sadness. “I’ll leave you in peace now, but here.” He lays his syringe near Konrad. “If you wish to take the pain away, this will do the job.” He moves to leave, then pauses and turns to Konrad. “If you need to be something, you know where my room is.” Then he leaves, hoping Konrad will understand that he did not just mean medicinal supplies.

It’s late that night, as Mortarion is trying to sleep, that Konrad slips soundless into his room, pulls back the covers on his bed, and snuggles against Mortarion’s back.


	17. Chapter 17

Magnus has seen it, yet again. He’d tried to sleep, tried perhaps to dream, but all that had come to him were visions of Prospero’s doom. His home, his beloved planet, burning. And the man that lay beside him now, as he lay shuddering, sweaty and gasping, the architect of them all. Magnus tries to pull himself away from Russ’s heat, and his clinging arms, but his attempts prove unsuccessful. They do, however, succeed in rousing the Wolf King from his sleep.  
Russ props himself up, blinking sleep from his eyes and taking in the sight of his lover in such a state of unrest. “What’s happened, Magnus?” He reaches out a hand, brushes back a lock of hair that is stuck to Magnus’s forehead.   
“I saw it, again.”  
Russ does not need to ask what is meant. He merely reaches out and pulls Magnus back into his embrace.   
Magnus shudders, wraps his arms around Leman’s neck and clings to him. “I love you.”  
“I know.” Russ kisses Magnus’s forehead. “Rest now.”  
“What if I’m wrong? What if I can’t stop it?” Magnus starts to shake even harder. “I can’t do it. I couldn’t bear it.”  
“It will not happen. I promise you. I would never do that.”  
“I know, but…”   
“Hush. Sleep.”  
Magnus settles against Russ, laying his head on his chest and listening to the sound of his hearts and of his breathing. There was a soothing familiarity to the rhythms, and the soft heat of Russ’s body. Eventually, Magnus fell still, no longer shaking, his breathing even. Not asleep, not him, but resting.   
Russ ran a hand over Magnus’s hair, his own sleep lost. His chest ached with a deep pain and regret. Magnus was hurting, tormented by his own clever mind, and Russ was at the center of the blame. Not by his own choosing, never, but it was his possible actions nonetheless, that had left Magnus in this state. He would stop it, he vowed. He couldn’t stop the visions that wracked his lover, but they would never be reality. Never.


	18. Chapter 18

Lorgar sat bent over a book, unaware of Guilliman’s gaze resting on him. His features were smooth with concentration, and his tattooed skin had a golden-bronze glow to it in the light from the window. Beautiful, thought Roboute, and chided himself, knowing that he should be working, not staring at his lover as he read. As he watched, Lorgar stirred over something he read, a frowning crease appearing between his eyebrows, and Roboute felt an absurd urge to go and smooth it away. This was nonsensical, it had gone too far. Lorgar had no right to be so distracting, so very beautiful and attention-grabbing. Did he even realise, Guilliman wondered? Did he knew the power he held over him?   
Lorgar finally saw him staring, looked up at him with a glint of mischief in his golden eyes. “Come here, Roboute. Those papers can wait.”  
Roboute barely hesitated, dropped his pen, strode across the room, pulled Lorgar into his arms and crushed their lips together.


	19. Chapter 19

Horus’s lips taste like Space Wolf mjod. He pulls Sanguinius’s hips against him, squirming in between his legs and grinding, kissing him sloppy and wet.   
“Horus.” Sanguinius struggles to pull away from the other’s lips long enough to speak. “You’re drunk.”  
“I know. And you’re beautiful. You pretty Angel.” His fingers dig into Sanguinius’s hips, then move lower to kneed at his ass. Horus’s back rests against the wall of their room, and he holds Sanguinius against him. Finally, Sanguinius relents, kisses Horus back with equal passion and pushes his hips back against him, pressing hard and hot.  
“Come to my bed then, darling, if you won’t go to yours.” Horus moans into Sangiunius’s mouth at that, and lets himself be led, pushed down onto the mattress and straddled. Grasping hands divulge both of them of their robes, and then they are together, bare skin brushing against each other, gasping and moaning into each other’s mouths as they fall together against the mattress.


	20. Chapter 20

“May I kiss you, my lord?” Sigismund’s eyes burn with a soft fire, and his hands feel gentle and warm as he cups Dorn’s face. There is hope in his expression, and tender love, and Dorn could not deny him, not even if he wished to.  
“Of course, Sigismund. Please.” He closes his eyes as Sigismund’s lips meet his own. They feel soft, hot, slightly dry, and they caress his gently at first, then the pressure deepens. Dorn’s lips part, Sigismund’s tongue sliding between him, and he tastes the heat of his son’s mouth. Sigismund rests in Dorn’s lap, lightly, leaning up to reach him better. His fingers tangle in silky bone-white hair. Dorn reaches out, runs a hand aimlessly over Sigismund’s back, his shoulders, his arms. Feeling the muscles under his skin, the way Sigismund arches under his touch. Dorn moans against his son’s lips, into his open mouth. Sigismund is so beautiful. He is so lucky to have him, as a son, by his side, like they are now, intertwined on the bed in Dorn’s quarters. He rubs between Sigismund’s shoulderblades, pulls away from the kiss to rest their foreheads together.   
“What do you want, my lord? What can I do?”  
“Stay with me a while. I don’t wish to be alone tonight.”  
Sigismund smiles, and his eyes shine with affection. “Of course. Always.” He lays his face against Dorn’s shoulder, and is cradled there as Dorn lays back on the mattress.


	21. Chapter 21

Corax gasps as Curze’s lightning claws slice through his chest. Blood spills, hot and red, staining his robes. He is choking on it, gurgling and gasping, his pale lips stained liquid scarlet. He is dying, life ebbing away as he bleeds from the ragged hole in his chest. Curze looks at him in horror, in sudden realisation, and he screams.   
He screams his throat raw, sound echoing from the walls as he thrashes on the floor. The convulsions ease, and he falls, shaking, gasping, sobbing from a raw throat. He hurts, every muscle in his body aches, his skin feels like it has been soaked in acid and his head pounds. All he can see is the image of Corax’s face when he was stabbed, choking and dying by Konrad’s hands. He starts to cry, helpless, heaving tears. He wants darkness, wants to crawl away and hide and gnaw on his arms until the pain fades some.   
“Konrad?” Corax’s face hovers over him, swimming in and out of his blurred vision. Konrad reaches for him, clawing out to make contact, and Corax catches his wrist, takes his hand and rubs a thumb over his palm.   
“Oh, Konrad.” His voice is soft, trying not to startle. He leans slowly down over Curze, runs a warm hand over his damp, frozen cheek.   
“No!” Konrad tries to shift away from him, tries to move too fast and is stopped by the knife of pain stabbing through his head.  
Corax helps him sit up, gathers him into his arms against Konrad’s shaky attempts to pull away, and rest Konrad’s head against his shoulder, rocking him close. “It’s not real.” He strokes a gentle hand through Konrad’s hair. “Whatever you saw, it isn’t real.”  
Konrad finds his voice, shaky and weak though it is. “Saw you dead. I killed you. Stabbed you through the chest.”  
“Not here. You didn’t kill me here. I’m right with you here.” Corax’s lips press to Konrad’s, warm and soft and alive. Konrad rides out the pained tremors in his grasp, a post seizure migraine starting to grip him. He clings to Corax, buries his face against his neck, and knows that here, now, in this fragile fragment of a possible world, there is no blood, no death, no pain. He is held, and loved. He is safe.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like what you see feel free to check out my tumblr at platoscaverescue team, and/or commission me or buy me a ko-fi (info on the Tumblr page.)


End file.
